


Heavy-Handed

by unicornsandbutane



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bad Puns, M/M, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 21:21:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3303932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornsandbutane/pseuds/unicornsandbutane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My secret santa for outfighting lions on tumblr.</p><p>Prompts (I kinda combined them): "Request 4) Scout/heavy size kink in any way shape or form. This can be fluff/mature/humour/violence/etc: Scout getting clotheslined by heavy, Scout getting picked up upside down buy heavy, Heavy getting climbed like a mountain, etc etc etc</p><p>Request 5) Mature: Scout/heavy’s large fingers.  Scouts feisty, cocky, and could take it"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heavy-Handed

"D’ya know I wrestled in high school?" 

The Heavy looked over at the Scout, impassive as a glacier. The runner sat perched on the arm of the couch in the rec room, as Heavy and Sascha took up the entirety of the seat. 

"You used t’be a boxer, right? Same difference."

One corner of the Heavy’s mouth turned down. 

"Yeah, so I weren’t the biggest kid in my class, right, but I was definitely the fastest, and after all them fights wit’ my brothers what were bigger’n me? Pfft, fuhgeddaboutit! Any big goon could come at me and I’d slip under his elbow. He’d wheel around and I’d be behind him already, no sweat! Any mook’at tried t’hold me, I’d squirrel right out of his hands afore they could even start the count. My coach would say, ‘O’Sullivan! You are the sorriest wrestler I ever did see, but ain’t no one can pin ya!’"

The Heavy turned his attention back to “I Dream of Jeannie”, and hauled Sascha into his lap to begin polishing her again. This turned out to be a mistake because it freed up space for the Scout to slide into the seat next to him. 

"It was okay, though, a’cause I was on varsity track and baseball, y’know, an’ all’a that. Girls went crazy for me, y’know what I’m sayin’? Couple’a my brothers’ girlfriends even were sweet on me. Was a real shame to leave ‘em all wantin’, all teary-eyed when I left t’join RED, but, y’know, y’do whatcha gotta do. Only problem out here is…"

It was easy to tune out of the Scout’s monologue, by this point. Everyone on the team had a great deal of practice. But, his ongoing gesticulation caught the Heavy’s eye, flashing in his periphery. 

The Scout’s hands moved incessantly, outlining points, reenacting anecdotes, while a loose end of his athletic tape flickered with each motion. His face, too, was wildly expressive. Eyebrows zigged and zagged over the Scout’s eyes like the bow over a violin. His nose scrunched and twitched with this or that word, a thought, a feeling. With every syllable, his mouth made new and interesting shapes, from his characteristic bucktoothed grin to a pinched little pout to a wide-mouthed grimace, and everything in between. The Heavy began to notice a little crease appearing and disappearing at the corner of the Scout’s smile, and he had to watch for it to make sure it was there: a single dimple, on his right cheek, inconstant, but there. 

"What? Hey, what?! Whatchu starin’ at, huh?" The Scout was waving in his face. The Heavy blinked rapidly, and decided it was time to leave.

—————

That dimple appeared the next evening, as well, in the respawn locker before a mission, when the Scout shoved a brick of Bazooka bubblegum into his mouth and worked to soften it up. He worried it with his teeth and tongue and squinted a little, sucking on the hard sugary block while the Administrator counted down. Muscles in the Scout’s slim neck pulled and stretched until he was finally able to bite through the gum and start working it into a chewable wad. By the thirty second mark the Heavy was watching the Scout’s tongue poke out, through the sticky pink blob, before darting back in so he could blow a big, pink bubble. When it popped, he sucked the gum back into his mouth and snapped it in his teeth. 

He looked over to the Heavy.

The Heavy looked away. He spun up his minigun and concentrated on the feeling of being overhealed, the little machine in his heart clicking into overdrive making him feel electric, alert. He smelled the tang of sweat cooling in the gloam, and the grit of the desert, the salt of the dry lake, and something sweet that was either the Scout’s gum, or nitroglycerin. 

The gates opened, and the Scout zipped out with a whoop to be first on the point. The Pyro, Soldier, and Demoman followed while the Sniper and the Engineer cut around to find good nests. The Heavy didn’t notice when the Spy left, but he was gone by the time the Heavy got to the gate and stepped out into the waning sun. 

The rocks and spires still radiated heat, although the sun had begun to dip low on the western horizon, turning long shadows purple and their battlegrounds a fiery red-orange.

With the Medic behind him, he moved largely unscathed to one of the choke points on the bridge. He lurked in the doorway and waited for the enemy Pyro to come rushing by, or the enemy Heavy, or their Medic or Soldier. The Scouts, judging by the hollering and clanging coming from beyond the corrugated steel shipping containers, were duking it out on the point. Their own Medic attempted to keep their Scout and Engineer alive, but it seemed the enemy Soldier and Demoman were giving the Engineer a hard time. The Sniper must have found a roost by the enemy respawn, because nobody was getting their heads blown off on the point, and because he hadn’t heard the telltale screams of his team mates getting stabbed in the back. Likely the Sniper had seen fit to continue his vendetta against the enemy Spy, by shooting him dead each time he tried to leave his own base. As for the RED Spy, the Heavy had to assume he’d targetted the enemy Engineer, because neither of them were on the point. 

The Soldier ran by him, screaming, and managed to obliterate the enemy Scout before getting gored by the enemy Demoman’s sword, but this meant that the BLU Demoman was no longer on the point so the RED Scout, Medic, and Engineer could finally capture it. 

The next trick was to hold it. 

The Heavy crossed to face the point, and backed himself up against a box car. The idea was to mow down anybody making a frontal assault, and let his team mates flank. The Scout backed up close to him, still sloughing off the misty photons that persisted after an overheal. He practically vibrated, pausing for a moment to line up a shot with his Force-A-Nature. The kickback jolted him into the steel behind him, but he didn’t seem to notice, too content with pumping another round of lead into the charging enemy Demoman. Then he ran forward and back, and forward and back, never keeping still, his toes dancing over the point. 

Engie had a Level II sentry up, beeping and whirring, and had begun upgrading his dispenser. Scrap metal was hard to come by, but he’d manage, especially with the enemy Spy kept off his back. 

BLU tried to make another push, and the Heavy aimed at their thickest parts, catching some stray bullets from his own opposite number. The BLU Pyro went down again, and their Medic fell into a stickybomb trap. Their Soldier met a few rockets from Engie’s upgraded sentry. But, the BLU Demoman seemed to be working double time against Engie’s buildings, and the Pyro could only compression blast away so many explosives before one slipped through the cracks. The firestarter took heavy damage, but pressed forward, looking to make up for lost ground by burning as many BLUs to a crisp as possible before the enemy Scout ran in to finish the job with his tiny peashooter of a pistol. The Heavy watched his own team’s Scout zero in on his opposite and swallow his gum, before his world went out like a light. 

There was something embarassing about being headshotted. He waited in respawn for the residual wooziness to wear off, and struck out again. The stretch between there and the point would be dangerouss, with little cover from the hidden Sniper and as-yet unseen Spy. Could be the BLU Engineer had set up a treacherous little stronghold somewhere along the way. He moved as carefully as could a man his size. 

A red blur zipped by, skidded, and looped back. 

"BLU lardass with a Medic in his crotch pocket, incoming at 10 o’clock. He’s got that big dragon-lookin’ gun, y’know."

"Expends ammunition very fast, that one."

"Yeah," the Scout intoned, squinting into the last lingering light of the setting sun. "Yeah, okay. Think you can camp that ammo kit, there? I’ll be right back. Just you watch this!" 

The Heavy stood by a crate of ammunition, wondering what the Scout was up to, wondering exactly how foolish it was to stay here rather than attempt to reunite with his team mates on the point. 

The slight figure of the Scout flitted around the BLU Heavy and Medic pair. Atomizer in hand he darted back and forth while the BLU Heavy tried to get a bead on him, the Scout occasionally taking a swing at the Medic before loping out of range again. Sure, he caught a bullet or two, in his strafing, but not enough to take him down. His nose wrinkled, the smell of sweat and ozone alerting him before that telltale crackle that the BLU Medic was ready to über their Heavy. The Scout swooped in and cracked the enemy team’s doctor a good one, right over the crown of his head, and felt the Medic’s skull crush under the pressure. The BLU Heavy shoved the ornate muzzle of his fire-spewing minigun into the Scout’s solar plexus, and unloaded the remainder of his clip into the lean torso, tearing it to ribbons. The gun clicked as the firing mechanisms tripped without bullets. 

The BLU Heavy turned to where he knew an ammo box lay, but the RED Heavy was there, spinning up. Before the enemy Heavy could retrieve his iron gloves, the RED Heavy was firing several hundred custom-tooled super caliber ballistics into the man’s gut, roaring as he did so. The opposing giant slumped dramatically to his knees and dropped face-first into the dust like a felled oak. 

A few of the Heavy’s team mates rushed by, and he hustled to join them in the fray. 

—————

A job well done lifted the team’s spirits, and they whooped and hollered all the way back to their main base. Even the Spy’s dirisive commentary on the way to their vehicles seemed all in good fun, tempered by a wry grin as it was. 

The Heavy laughed along with his comrades and picked chunks of dried blood from where it had matted in the hair on his arms. He flicked the blobs out into the desert night as it whipped by, through the window, the Medic driving his ambulance perhaps a little more erratically than standard safety laws would ordinarily suggest. It was a good sign. The Medic only obeyed vehicular codes when he felt particularly morose. He might have been tailgating the Engineer’s truck a little, and the Heavy could see through the back window the way Engie, in his Victory Ten-Gallon (though he’d never call it that himself) adjusted the rear-view in slight annoyance. The Heavy chuckled. Usually, after a defeat, the Engineer would feel too sour to slap the huge white hat on his shaven head. But, after a win like this one, it sat perched like the gables of an antebellum veranda over his mild smirk. 

The Soldier rode shotgun, clearly in the midst of some humourously gruesome anecdote, judging by his gesticulations. His helmet bumped along with the uneven road. The Scout lay in the truck bed, only slightly leaned up against the cab, with his hat pulled over his eyes and his hands tucked into his arm pits. The way he reclined, one foot shoved up under the other knee, the other leg outstretched, he looked like the absolute picture of youthful nonchalance. The Heavy was reminded of an attempt to assimilate with American culture, watching James Dean in “Rebel without a Cause”. Ordinarily, the Scout was not so moody as he remembered Dean’s character. Perhaps he was put out that he had no one to talk to, except the Soldier’s new pair of heads, bouncing wetly on the running board with slack jaws flapping. 

Behind the Medic, in the hollowed-out interior of the truck, Demo snoozed peacefully, sometimes snuffling, sometimes snoring, laid out on his belly and rocking with the speeding van. The Pyro sat across from him, cross-legged, leaning with a straight back against the wall. Rubber gloved fingers interlaced with eachother as the Pyro rode along in silence, so that the Heavy was unsure whether the Pyro slept or merely stared wordlessly at the wall. 

Trundling sedately behind the ambulance was the Sniper’s camper van, though the porthole windows in the ambulance’s back doors provided little in the way of a view of the final two mercenaries as they brought up the rear. Was the Spy driving the Sniper crazy yet? Had they lapsed into some shade of silence, quietly smoking two different brands of cigarettes? Perhaps they’d hit on a subject, as one might occasionally do with the Sniper, bringing him out of his characteristic reservedness. 

He’d been surprised the day the Scout mentioned some particular monster movie with very bad effects, the name of which the Heavy could not recall, and the Sniper sat up and lit into a lecture about everything from the actors involved to the book on which the screenplay was based to the studio that produced the godawful flick. He said he’d read just about everything by that author, and seen just about every creature feature by that studio, and the Scout asked if either one was any good and the Sniper gave a strange, low laugh and said “Nahh,” and stalked off. And that was that. Unflappable as ever, the Scout asked the room at large if anyone else wanted to catch the flick on T.V. later. The Heavy ended up watching most of it, over the top of the book he’d meant to be reading. 

Oh well. The Scout sat curled into the corner of the couch with a greasy bag of onion rings, the paper nearly transparent with all the oil, glassy-eyed and munching away, sucking crumbs of deep-fried batter from his fingertips. The Heavy couldn’t be sure from the Scout’s expression whether he was enjoying the movie or not, but he stayed mostly quiet until his onion rings were gone. Then came the commentary. 

"Ah jeez," the Scout tsked, "Its face don’t even move when it talks. That’s the worst goddamn papier-mâché I ever saw. Shit, this movie ain’t scary at all, ‘less yer a third-grade art teacher." 

"Whats that, a gorilla suit? A bit’a shag carpet? Th’hell am I lookin’ at, here? I think my gran once knitted somethin’ like that…"

"Cripes, this bit ain’t even in focus. Cameraman got stoned to see if it would make the movie better. Newsflash, it didn’t."

"JAYsus Mary and Joseph, where’d they find THAT ugly-ass broad?! I take back what I said about this movie not bein’ scary, because YIKES that face is gonna be the apparition I see before I die."

"She looks like a fuckin’ harpy!"

"Aw, hell, don’t make him KISS he— blecchh!"

And so it went until the strapping hero killed the monster with a hand grenade, and the damsel in distress swooned into his arms. The Scout tossed his crumpled take-out bag at the screen while the credits rolled.

"Welp!" he declared, standing and stretching, "Snipes was right. That was fuckin’ terrible." 

Then he’d trotted out of the room and the Heavy was left, staring after him despite himself, thinking what a strange little man the Scout could be. 

From the truck bed, the Scout looked up and waved, a lopsided smile slanting under the shadow of his hat. The Heavy wasn’t sure the runner could actually see them through the dark, but he waved back anyway. The Scout’s athletic tape was semi-reflective, and shone dimly with slivers of moonlight. For such a tiny body, the Scout had fairly large hands. They made him look even more gangly than he was, as if perpetually caught in the midst of some awkward adolescent growth spurt. If not for his tiny feet, he’d look like a puppy, with its paws too big. The hand wraps only emphasized the strange bigness of the Scout’s hands, making them bulkier. 

Even so, the Heavy thought the Scout’s whole head would fit into just one of the Heavy’s own hands. He could probably strangle the lanky runner with just his thumb and forefinger. He could wrap his hands around the Scout’s middle, and lace his fingers behind. He knew, of course he knew, that he was larger than most men, but next to the Scout, it was much more pronounced. 

He couldn’t imagine the weedy little shrimp actually wrestling.

—————

"C’maawwwn," the Scout cajoled, bouncing on the balls of his feet in front of the Heavy. "Bet I could take ya." He stooped in some mockery of a defensive stance. The Spy walked in, surveyed the scene, snorted, and walked out, chuckling. Either oblivious, overconfident, or both—probably both— the Scout ignored this and bounded into the Heavy’s personal space. He jabbed him once in the side, and once just under the collarbone before lolloping away. 

The Heavy’s brows drew close. What was the meaning of this? He swept a hand out to move the Scout out of his way, but the Scout was too quick, and tagged his elbow. 

"Uh-uh! Too slow!" the Scout teased, skidding behind the Heavy and springing up to tap him on the shoulder before scooting out from under the swing of the giant’s arm.

"Better try harder, big guy." 

"No." The Heavy proceeded forward, but the Scout slid into his immediate proximity, on his tip-toes to try and level their gazes. It was a failed effort, but it rankled all the same. With another step forward, the Heavy threatened to simply trample the smaller man if he refused to move out of the way. The Scout took one step back, then launched himself up in one of his trademark high-jumps, springboarding off of the couch to land on Heavy’s shoulders, one foot on each slope of his trapezius. With a hand on the Heavy’s scalp, he front-flipped down behind the giant, and raced for the door.

"Jeez, thought you’d have more in ya than that!” he crowed before sprinting down the hall. 

The Heavy took several deep breaths. The little fool was, after all, a team mate, and very frequently a credit to the team. He was just… from a different set of circumstances, and this kind of behaviour was— well, it really wasn’t— he couldn’t be expected to just—

He lost the battle with his temper and took off down the hall after the Scout. He did not run. He didn’t need to. Especially when he could follow the sound of the Scout’s Bostonian slang bouncing down the hall, and the Heavy knew he was intimidating enough without the aid of speed. 

He found the Scout in the kitchen and laid a huge hand over the runner’s skull, and turned the Scout to face him. As he thought, the whole of the Scout’s tiny head fit securely in the Heavy’s palm. 

"You want a fight? Come. We fight." 

Immediately, the Scout was standing, sending his chair clattering to the floor. The Engineer warned them not to break anything he’d have to fix later, while the Pyro’s gloved hands flew up to shield those inscrutable optic lenses. 

"Ya ready for round two, slowpoke?" the Scout brayed around his gum. The Heavy gave him a shove in the upper back to get him going. He’d bodily move the little brat, if need be. Stumbling forward a few steps, the Scout began to ask "Hey, what—?" but was cut off when the Heavy pushed him again. It continued in this way until they’d left the room. 

"Awright, aw-RIGHT! I get it!" the Scout exclaimed, whipping his hat off, "Lay off, will ya? Jeez!"

The Heavy stood back and crossed his massive arms over the barrel of his chest. 

"Well? Where we goin’? Or ain’tcha planned that far ahead?" Glaring, the Scout sucked at his buck teeth and crossed his own wiry arms in front of him. 

"We go to gun range. You know where this is, yes?"

“‘Course I do! Whaddya mean, do I know where that is?!”

"Could not tell if you ever did practice with tiny baby guns," the Heavy replied, shrugging, and setting off down the hall.

"What?! I’d like to see you gettin’ around with somethin’at kicks like my Force-A-Nature!" The Scout’s light footfalls and quick steps followed him.

"Pfeh! You are like child with straw and chewed-up paper."

"I’ve killed the BLU Heavy with nothin’ but a bat and my own bare hands!"

"He is not so big as me," the Heavy answered with a wry grin.

"Bullcrap! He is totally the same size as you!" The runner jabbed the Heavy in the back for emphasis. It took the Heavy a moment to calm his irritation. While he was clenching his fists and taking a deep breath, the Scout trotted in front of him and jogged in place, arms out in silent question. 

"Come on, Ruski, why you Stalin? Let’s go, on yer Marx!"

The Heavy looked at him, frowning.

"Hey I’m just Lenin you a hand, here! Why Kruschev see that? It’s obvious from any Engels!"

"What you are saying?" the Heavy asked slowly.

"Arise, you people of all nations! C’mon c’mon, pick up the pace, here! I’ve slowed to a Trotsky!"

"You… What?"

"I’m waitin’ for your second wind to manifesto! But, lookin’ atcha, I ain’t sure that’s gonna happen. You outweigh the needs of the many by far!" 

The Heavy practically threw the Scout into the shooting range, nestled in the far back of the base. 

"You say you were wrestler. All you do is poke. This is not wrestling."

"You challengin’ me to a match?"

"A real match, not this pokey-pokey bullshite."

"A real match, huh?" The Scout scratched his chin, looking around. "Well this certainly ain’t regulation—" he made a sweeping gesture at the bullet-scarred room. "There ain’t even a mat or nothin’."

"I say real match. I did not say regulation. We are not in same weight class.”

"You got that right," the Scout muttered. The Heavy pretended not to have heard him. 

"Now," the Heavy growled, taking a defensive stance, "Why it is you want to fight me? You are so small, I will break you like tiny baby toothpick." 

"Come off it, like you’re so great." The runner crouched down as well, his wrapped fists raised. 

"Killed fifteen men before thirteenth birthday. Had bar mitzvah in abandoned tin mine, buried under six feet of snow. You know nothing!"

"Oh yeah, real scary. You still go to battles with a fuckin’ Gatling gun! Me? I got a shotgun and a baseball bat. You tell me which takes more skill to actually kill as many people as we do out there!"

"You are saying Heavy is not credit to team?" 

The Scout actually deflated a bit. 

"Naw." He looked at his hands, then seemed to straighten, puff up again. "Naw, I ain’t sayin’ that. Why, did I bruise yer ego?"

The Heavy rolled his eyes, and the Scout took a swing at him. It cuffed the Heavy’s upper arm, and glanced off. He left himself open after that and the Heavy had only to swipe out that same arm to send the Scout reeling. Quick as ever the Scout spun on his toe and leapt up into the air, grabbed hold of the Heavy’s shoulder, and swung around behind him. He kneed the giant in the back, aiming for a kidney, and the Heavy coughed, and scrabbled for the little monkey clinging to his back. The Scout dug his heels in at the Heavy’s hips and wrapped his arms around the man’s thick neck, trying for a head lock, but the Heavy grabbed him by the back of the shirt and pulled him over his own head to dangle the runner upside-down.

"You are trying to prove something, maybe?"

The Scout glared, then bent himself double, a sit-up against the forces of gravity, and wormed his way out of the Heavy’s hold. He dropped easily onto the ground, landing like a cat, on the balls of his feet. With a few agile steps backward, he glanced up at the Heavy and smirked, and there it was, that dimple, and that was the only distraction the Scout needed to lunge forward with a sharp uppercut against the Heavy’s jaw that made his teeth clack and his head rattle. 

The giant shook it off and stared his opponent down.

"How d’ya like that, huh? That’s my pitchin’ arm. How’d you like another?!”

He dove again, and the Heavy lunged, but the Scout feinted to the side and dipped low, rolled onto his back and kicked just under the Heavy’s right knee. The Heavy’s leg buckled under him and the Scout rolled sideways, out of the way, as the Heavy fell to his hands and knees.

"Tim-berrr—!" the Scout called, laughing. He placed a foot in the small of the Heavy’s back. "I claim this land in the name of Boston!" The giant shifted, trying to find his feet, and the Scout’s foot slipped down the curve of the Heavy’s ass. "Nevermind," the runner interjected. "This place is a shithole!" 

The Heavy roared and hurled himself backward, causing the Scout to trip and go sprawling, with the Heavy coming down on top of him. Wheezing, the Scout clawed for purchase on the concrete floor, but remained sturdily pinned under the Heavy’s considerable mass. The giant rolled to get his arms under him, and stared down into the Scout’s flushed face, watching the runner cough and hack, watching tears gather on the Scout’s lashes, making them stick into points. 

"That was ten," he rumbled, pushing himself up. "I win." 

"What?!" the Scout croaked, still catching his breath, "I ain’t heard you countin’!" He rushed after the Heavy, who was already on his way out the door. The Heavy shrugged.

"Was still ten seconds. You are not satisfied?"

"I think yer cheatin’!" 

The Scout received an icy glare in reply. 

"I do not cheat." 

"What, so Russian seconds are faster than American ones?"

"You will only be content if I smash tiny baby skull to splinters?"

"Shit, man, I’m just tryin’ t’have a good time! JAY-zus!" 

The Heavy looked at him for a long moment. The Scout looked up at him with wide, blue eyes. 

With a twitch of his lip, the Heavy turned away, shaking his head. 

—————

At breakfast, there that dimple was, as the Scout gnawed away at a bit of over-done toast. He took huge bites, and the Heavy wondered how the Scout forced such large mouthfulls down such a tiny throat. He quickly looked away from the Scout’s Adam’s apple bobbing as he washed breakfast down with deep swigs of milk. 

The Scout was very distracting.

He was loud, and self-important, and braggart of the worst kind, always poised to launch into a self-agrandizing anecdote. On the battlefield he was all over the place; you could never be sure the Scout wasn’t about to come sailing over your head, or go skittering around your elbows, or get splattered all over your shirt. And, at breakfast, he made disgusting noises all through his meal, talking with his mouth full and slurping bacon grease from his fingers, scraping his fork against his plate and challenging the others to belching contests, grunting and moaning appreciatively when he was through. 

The Heavy was embarassed for him, and felt the heat of shame by association creep up on his cheeks whenever the Scout was particularly vocal at the table. Especially because sometimes the Medic would point out the distinctive ‘om-nom-nom’ sound the Heavy himself made, eating a sandvich on the battlefield. 

That was different, though! Bullets and bombs weren’t flying, at the breakfast table. The Scout wasn’t in danger of being torn apart by a rocket grenade, if he ate his eggs too slowly. The Heavy scowled at the runner, where most everyone else had given up on disparaging the brash Bostonian’s lack of manners. 

The Scout curled his lip up and pushed his nose into a pig-like snout with his thumb. He stuck out his tongue. It still had bits of half-chewed food on it. The Heavy rolled his eyes and shook his head, turning back to his malt-o-meal, so he heard, but did not see, the Scout snickering across the table.

Easily enough, though, the Scout turned his attention elsewhere, trying to see how many bits of food he could sneak off the Sniper’s plate. He teased the ‘mighty hunter’ when he was caught, ribbed him for being an unobservant sniper, told him he ought to have had a keener eye, when he was struck dead between the eyes by a discarded tea bag, flicked with devastating accuracy by the Sniper himself. 

"Boom," the man rumbled, over the rim of his mug, "Headshot."

The Scout stood, his spoon poised to jettison a wad of eggy scramble across the table at the marksman, but the Engineer placed a hand on the Scout’s shoulder and forced his ass back into his seat. The Texan then resumed his meal without a word. 

Scowling, the runner griped about being manhandled, but the Engineer did not even turn towards him, only continued to spread butter evenly on his toast. 

The Pyro walked in, suit squeaking, and picked over the remnants of breakfast. A scoop of scrambled eggs and a single rasher of bacon were joined by a heaping dollop of margarine for the three slices of bread the Pyro jammed into the toaster. The Heavy was certain the firebug was trying to set the toaster on fire by overloading it, but it hadn’t been a problem yet. 

He was rather surprised, actually; the Pyro almost never burned food. Even complicated things came away perfectly when the Pyro cooked. Strange as it was that he’d never seen the little firestarter eat, the Heavy had to admit that his gasmask-clad team mate was probably the best cook among them. 

On occasion, the Pyro would shuffle after the Sniper or Engineer on trips into town, and come back with chocolate chips, or a bag of powdered sugar, or Graham crackers, and then suddenly there would be cookies or meringues or icebox pie waiting for them after dinner. The last time it was cinnamon cookies, and the Scout called them ‘snickerdoodles’, which didn’t even sound like any kind of proper word, and the Scout said that his Ma made better ones, but he’d begged the Pyro to make more all the same. 

How did the Scout get away with being so rude? The Heavy wondered if the Pyro’s feelings had been hurt at all. It was hard to tell, but the two were close, anyway, so either the Pyro had a very thick skin under that asbestos suit, or the Scout hadn’t really meant it. That, too, was hard to tell. 

Truth be told, the Heavy didn’t spend a lot of time with his youngest team mate. The Scout was frequently outside, running laps, playing catch with whomever he could rope in, or throwing a ball against a shed, in a pinch, jumping rooftop to rooftop, and getting into trouble. And, when he wasn’t doing any of that, he was in the rec room watching hours of mindless television. Sitcoms, game shows, westerns, and yes, even the odd creature feature, the Scout would sit and watch. That, and sports.

The Heavy had to admit he didn’t understand the appeal of baseball. He knew that the Boston Red Sox were the Scout’s favourite team, but the runner didn’t seem to care— during the playoffs, and all through the summer, he’d watch any game he could catch, and savour each pitch, each catch, each hit and each run, with side commentary rivaling that of the telecasters. He seemed to have some kind of rubric memorized, that if this or that team won this or that game, out of however many matchups any two teams might have, that the chances for the ‘Sox’ to play in the World Series would be that much better. 

The Heavy understood tiers that governed matches. He knew the desire for stronger opponents to be knocked out of lower levels, to better one’s chances later on. But the way the Scout spoke of them was some whole other level. 

The Heavy didn’t understand it, and he didn’t understand the allure of the game. Man throws ball, other man tries to hit ball, man hits, he runs in straight lines, other men try to cut him off. But, the Scout would sit on the edge of his seat, enraptured, whooping and hollering, or cursing and hissing. He was so honest with his reactions, and he’d talk to anybody. He’d talk to an empty room. Any time the Heavy shared the space with the Scout and The Game, he’d hear “Jeezus Christ wouldja lookit THAT”s and “TELL me he’s joking!”s that weren’t actually directed at him.

"GAWD, just LISTEN to that crack of the bat! You didn’t used’ta be able t’hear that on T.V., y’know," he’d say, not even looking up from the little screen. "S’too bad this ain’t a color set, then you’d really see somethin’."

That same earnest attitude, the Heavy realized, was present in everything the Scout did, be it batting heads in and capping points, or swapping the salt for the sugar behind the Demo’s back and braying with laughter when the Demoman poured salt into his tea. The Heavy wondered if was honesty or simple stupidity that made the Scout act that way.

While the Demoman sputtered and threatened to hit the Scout so hard he’d shit teeth, the Scout slid his eyes to the other end of the table. He quirked his eyebrow at the Heavy and offered him a small grin.

"What’re you lookin’ at?” he murmured, smirking. The Heavy flicked his eyes to the Demo just in time to warn the Scout with a minute expression that a saucer was sailing straight for him. The Scout ducked with a squawk and the saucer shattered against the wall and the Soldier bellowed “HIT THE DECK!” and toppled his chair as he swung his shovel, and the Sniper with a yelp on the one side of him and the Medic with a hiss on the other had to duck out of its wide-bladed path, and the Engineer stopped mid-tirade as he was berating the Demoman for his childish, destructive behaviour at the breakfast table to shout “COMPANY HALT!”, bringing the Soldier to parade attention and letting the Sniper slink away to safer quarters, muttering about the reason he didn’t eat with this bunch of loonies in the first place, and the Medic to move his chair a discrete several feet to the right. When the Heavy looked up from the claxon, the Spy was standing in the doorway, in his balaclava, bathrobe, and black socks, observing the scene with an empty mug in his hand and distaste in his sneer. He turned on his heel and strode out, presumably deciding that dining wasn’t worth the din, and as the Heavy fished ceramic shrapnel out of his oatmeal, he felt inclined to agree.

"Aw, screw you guys," the Scout declared, dumping his plate into the sink. He’d already sped away by the time the Medic shouted, ‘leaving dirty dishes in the sink is unhygienic!’ and the Heavy had no doubt that someone else would wind up washing all of the Scout’s dishes, again. He knew this as well as he knew that the Scout did the dishes badly on purpose so that the rest of the team wouldn’t ask him to do them. He didn’t hide it well. 

The runner was always so… ‘in-your-face’, he supposed was the expression, that it was difficult not to notice all of these things. The dimple, and the hands, and that earnest attitude, everyone else would be aware of them, the Heavy was sure. It wasn’t as though he was some great detective. It didn’t even take any superlative powers of observation. Merely time spent around his rambunctious team mate. 

After the third time he crunched down on a shard of dish, still hiding in the glutinous depths of his hot cereal, the Heavy surrendered his breakfast to the bin. It was a lost cause, he decided, rising from the table.

He made a point of washing his dish. 

—————

These ceasefire days could be hard on the team. The Engineer, the Demoman and the Medic would keep busy with their own projects, and the Sniper could disappear just as easily as the Spy, but the Heavy could tell that the inaction grated on the Soldier’s nerves, as the man paced the halls, waving his shovel in shadows and corners. The Pyro had about 25 different magazine subscriptions, from Hot Rods to Better Homes and Gardens to National Geographic to Forbes, but without something to read or watch or do, the Heavy could expect most of the low-lying scrub around the base to be cleared by fire in short order. And the Scout, it seemed, could not stand to be alone. 

He could be chased out of the Engineer’s workshop, the Demoman’s shed, the Medic’s infirmary, the Sniper’s camper, and the Spy’s general presence, and just bounce back. The Soldier would cite him for disorderly conduct and sentence him to latrine duty, and the Pyro’s responses to the Scout’s countless anecdotes were entirely unintelligible. So, the Heavy surmised, the Scout’s attention fell to him. 

He supposed that was why the Scout had followed him to the resupply locker, yammering on while the Heavy retrieved his gun polish and chamois, and why the Scout continually insisted upon a rematch. 

"Nyet," the Heavy answered, simply. 

"Why not, scared I’ll win?" The Scout waggled his eyebrows and leaned in close. The Heavy bodily pushed the runner away. 

"No. I must clean and tend to Sascha. You will go play somewhere else," he said firmly. The Scout only bounced on his feet. 

"Whatever, you can do that after. Heck, it might even make you feel better after I kick yer butt!”

The Heavy turned, slowly, and rose up to his full height in order to cross his arms and regard the Scout down the bridge of his nose. Rocking back and forth on his feet, the Scout grinned up at him like a loon. 

The Scout would not let it lie, he realized, and so he stowed his polish and his cloth in the locker again, and cracked his neck. 

"You want I should meet you again in the shooting range?" 

Practically vibrating, the Scout beamed, clapped the Heavy on the forearm, and trotted out of the room. He jumped to tag an overhead beam, and whooped when he landed, running. 

The Heavy resigned himself to following, albeit at a more sedate pace. When he arrived at the shooting range, the Scout was fighting with a canvas tarp.

"What is this?" the Heavy asked.

"Oh, hey, there ya are. Gimme a hand wit’ this, will ya?" The tarp was stuck to the splintered edges of a stack of plywood cut-outs depicting members of the BLU team. "I found this tarp covering these standees, an’ I think it would make a good mat, if I could just get it loose—!" He gave a great tug, and the tarp ripped a bit, but remained fairly securely snared.

Inspecting the canvas, the Heavy was dubious that it would serve as a mat, but he hoisted the wooden targets, regardless. 

"Jeez, just like that, all at once? I guess I forget sometimes you got like, a ten foot wingspan, there." 

The Heavy shot the runner a quizzical look, but already the Scout had climbed up to pick the cloth free from the jagged wood. He dropped it to the ground when it was no longer caught, and jumped down on top of it. 

"Hmmm. It’s got like… a lotta little wood bits stuck to it."

The Heavy let the standees clatter to the floor, and shooed the Scout off of the tarp. He was just tall enough to shake it out, and the Scout stood by while he did so.

"Y’know, my second-oldest brother is the tallest. He ain’t as big as you, but, y’know, no shit." The runner brushed falling wood pulp from his shirt. "An’ we always made him fold all’a the sheets an’ blankets an’ the tablecloth after Thanksgivin’ or Christmas or whatever, on account’a he could ack-chelly hold the shit up off the ground and could also, y’know reach end-to-end on the narrow side of a sheet. Because, like, if it was me an’ like, my seventh brother— I mean, the second-youngest, just before me— we’d hafta hold the sheet with one’a us at either end, and do-si-do just to get the shit done." He picked a few resolute splinters from his clothing. "I mean, when we were kids, an’ all. What about you?"

"What about me?" The Heavy folded the tarp over, and spread it on the ground. 

"Ain’t chu got a helluva lotta sisters?" 

"Yes."

"Well, who did what, then?"

The Heavy blinked at the Scout, sizing him up. He sighed. 

"Natalia is now singer. Yulia is circus performer. Evgenia is prima ballerina. Oksana is now herding goats in mountains of homeland. And…" he looked away, mouth going thin, "Alessia took my title as heavyweight boxing champion."

"That ain’t exactly what I— wait, you had to fight your sister?"

"Was not much of a fight…" the Heavy mumbled.

"Well shoot," the Scout said, taking a bouncing defensive stance, "Maybe I oughta be fightin’ her stead’a you!" 

The Heavy said nothing, merely put up his fists and prepared himself for the Scout’s first move. 

A minute passed, and the Scout had not taken a swing. The Heavy strafed to the side, three paces, and the Scout mirrored his motions. They remained in the same positions, the same distance apart, and the Heavy met the Scout’s gaze, expecting to see a teasing smirk, but finding only blank determination, a strange coldness, a hard set to his mouth. No dimple.

Then, a slight twitch, and the Heavy braced. The Scout sprung up into the air, twisted, and before he could come down on the Heavy with his elbow, the giant reached out and grabbed the runner around the waist, stopping him mid-flight. He hauled that slighter body close and sank into a roll, keeping the Scout down. The runner struggled, kicking, and got a heel under him, which he used to push up and worm out of the Heavy’s hold. He practically danced out of the Heavy’s reach, staying just out of range as the giant struggled to his feet. 

"This is pointless. You will not be able to hold me down," the Heavy said.

The Scout didn’t even say anything then. He ran in a tight circle around his largest team mate, then moved to stay behind him, in his blind spot. The Heavy could not turn fast enough to get a bead on the fleet-footed Scout. Even doing a complete 360 with fists outstretched didn’t catch him; the Scout simply ducked the swing of his hand. 

The Heavy realized he’d need a different strategy.

With a few small steps, side to side, he made sure the Scout was staying behind him. Then, he allowed himself to fall. He went straight backwards, and felt the Scout go down beneath him. He heard the runner choke. It was easy enough to about-face so he could pin his team mate properly. The Scout looked up at him, snorted, and laughed, coughing in between. 

"Jesus Mary and Joseph," he gasped, "I think I did better the first time!" The Scout writhed, but could not get free. "Well, okay, fine, but if there was weapons involved I’d’a totally had a chance!" 

He grinned at the Heavy, clearly indomitable in spirit, and waited to be let up. The Heavy scrutinized his face, and as the moments ticked by, the smile faded into something else.

"Yer doin’ it again," the Scout intoned. 

"…What?"

"Starin’."

The Heavy looked away and moved to get up.

"Oh no you don’t!" the Scout quipped, redirecting the Heavy’s attention with a hand on the giant’s cheek. He forced the Heavy to face him. "You keep walking away from me or ignoring me or whatever an’ I wanna know why."

"Am not," was all the Heavy could say.

"Oh, for—! Yes you are! What, you don’t think I’m worth your time? Here I am, schvitzin’ all over th’ place, because you seem t’think I ain’t good enough! I mean, shit, sure you beat me at wrestlin’, or whatever the fuck that was, but that don’t mean I can’t do my job! How come all’a you look down on me so much, huh?" He was panting, colour high in his cheeks from frustration. "How come hardly none a’you guys c’n even take a joke? How come you stare at me like you don’t approve’a my face? What do I gotta do to prove I deserve a place on this team?!"

The Heavy was silent, and the Scout remained where he was, immobilized by the Heavy’s superior mass. 

"Well?!" the Scout demanded, jabbing the Heavy in the chest with two fingers.

"… Schvitzing?" the Heavy replied, quietly. 

"I thought you said you were Jewish?"

"I did not say that."

"Yes you did, you said you had yer bar mitzvah in an abandoned coal mine."

"Tin mine."

"—in an abandoned tin mine."

"I did."

"So yer Jewish. I had some Jewish neighbors. Only the one old married couple, on account’a the neighbourhood was mostly Catholic. Anyhow the ol’ lady, my Ma would have her for tea."

The Heavy nodded along. This was shaping up to be another one of the Scout’s largely pointless stories. 

"This was when I was real young, and I was home a lot. I’d hear ‘em in the kitchen, just goin’ on and on. So I learned all these words, right. Like ‘kvetch’, and ‘schlepping’, and ‘mensch’, and ‘oy gavoltz’. Jewish words. Right?"

The Heavy shrugged one shoulder. 

"Can I get up now?"

The Heavy rose, and the Scout scrambled out from under him. He sat, with his elbows extended over his bent knees, on their makeshift mat. The Heavy leaned back on his hands, regarding his younger team mate warily.

"GOD DAMMIT, will you stop that?! Yer starin’ again and it’s startin’ t’piss me off!" His wrapped hand hit the canvas with a smack. 

The Heavy could only sigh, shrug, and look at his hands. 

"I mean you never explained why y’even do that! Why’s it me you got such a problem with?" 

"I do not have problem with tiny Scout," the Heavy insisted. The bombastic Bostonian was annoying at times, well, most of the time, but the Heavy didn’t disparage his use to the team.

"Well then, what the fuck, man?! Look at me, why doncha?!" 

And the Heavy glanced up, and something changed in the Scout’s face. He sat back a bit, his narrow jaw tilted up, and he raised his brows suspiciously. 

"Unless… holy fuck! No shit. Well. Jeezus, of all people! Fuckin’ hell. Jeez, um, okay. Shit, I gotta think about that one." 

The Scout chuckled and the Heavy felt his expression darkening. “You are not making sense,” he accused.

"Well, I mean. I never expected you t’have a thing for me. But I mean, I guess, if yer like that an’ all… I don’t really blame you. Can’t say I don’t see the appeal, after all.” 

The Heavy wanted to bash the Scout’s bucktoothed smirk into the ground.

Already he was rising to his feet, fists clenched.

"Whoa whoa whoa… Hold on there, big guy. No need to get mad. I mean, it’s 1969, not 1949. An’ uh… Yeah, you know, free love or whatever!" The Scout held up his hands, but the Heavy felt his frown deepening. 

"An’ I guess if I was gonna go for a guy it’d be a guy like you!"

Stunned, the Heavy stepped back. 

"Yeah, y’know like… I’d need someone who could keep up with me— okay, not in a triathalon, you couldn’t, I’m way faster’n you, but, you got endurance, so. There’s that. And uh…" He moved closer to his giant team mate, looking him over. "Yer not so bad to look at, right?" The runner put out his hands like a film director, framing the Heavy between his fingers. "I mean, if guys is whatcher into."

"And it is not what you are, eh, ‘into’, yes?" 

"Nahh. Well—" He made a quick circuit of the Heavy, and stopped in front of him again, arms crossed thoughtfully. "Tell ya what. You tell people I won this match, and I’ll give you a shot. Whatchu say?" His horse-faced grin was infuriating, and the Heavy didn’t like being made fun of. He pulled back his fist, and the Scout flailed. "For fuck’s sake, man, whatcha gonna hit me for?! I’m serious!" 

Slowly, the Heavy lowered his fist, watching the Scout relax. 

"Yeah. Y’know, yeah. I mean, why not, right? Stuck all the way out here, an’ everythin’, and it ain’t somethin’ I ever tried before, so… Yeah. Let’s do it." He paused, then pointed a declarative finger in the Heavy’s direction. "Ain’t nothin’ goin’ in my ass, though, got that?" 

The Heavy laughed, then, long and loud. 

"I ain’t kiddin’! You hear me, Big Red?!"

Lost for words, and laughing too hard to speak anyway, the Heavy could only shake his head and wave the Scout off.

"What? What?! What is so goddamn funny, you great lummox?” 

"We will not do this thing. Do not be so foolish," the Heavy finally managed, stifling laughter. 

The Scout flung his hands up. “Jeezus Mary and Joseph yer frustratin’. If ya don’t want it, that’s one thing but whaddya mean by callin’ me ‘foolish’?!”

"Okay. Say we do. It is, as you say, not your thing. You will not like. Why would you do it?" the Heavy reasoned, chuckling. 

"How do you know what I— look, this is stupid. I ain’t gonna argue with ya about it.” He picked up his hat from the makeshift mat, and dusted it off. “See ya at breakfast.” 

He was already to the door when the Heavy spoke up. 

"Eghh," the giant said, and the Scout turned.

"You say somethin’?" 

"Yes."

"Well, whaddya want, then?"

"You want to, ehh, try? With me?"

The Scout shrugged. “Guess so.”

"Ah." The Heavy ran a hand over his shaven head. The Scout’s ambivalence was terrible for his self esteem, really. He glanced up, and met the Scout’s gaze. "When?" 

"Ehh." The Scout dug a finger in his ear, squinting. "Whenever you decide to admit to me that you want me."

The Heavy could hear the runner’s laughter echoing down the hall as his tiny little feet carried him away.

—————-

He couldn’t imagine himself saying that. He hadn’t even thought about it until the Scout brought it up.

Well, not a lot anyway.

It was only the passing, idle kind of thought, like, alternative ways to shut the Scout up, for example. And he imagined that the runner’s scrawny neck would mean a very tight throat—

But more often, it was the thought that, sometimes, when the Scout became intent upon something, maybe he wasn’t all that bad. And the bravado could be kind-of endearing, when he, the oldest of many siblings, remembered that the Scout was always the youngest.

Those two trains of thought were somewhat at odds with one another, though. It was difficult to look at the Scout as a somewhat annoying younger brother, when the runner outright propositioned him. 

And if he was going to resolve this thing, it seemed as though he was going to have to talk to his youngest team mate— not to tell him he, how did the Scout put it? Not to say he ‘wanted’ him, but just to sort things out. 

It couldn’t be too difficult.

—————

Days later the Scout was still giving him looks… snide little glances he was sure their team mates would notice. He would look up from his corn flakes, meet the Heavy’s eyes across the table, smirk, and go back to crunching and slurping away. He’d snort out a little laugh when the Heavy walked into the rec room and the Scout was already there. In the respawn locker when the ceasefire ended, the Scout had the gall to look over and wink before the gates opened and the runner was as good as gone. 

This was getting ridiculous. After one of these displays at dinner, the Spy raised an eyebrow and examined the Heavy over his glass. The Heavy could only glare back, daring the man to comment on it. With a shrug and the most false-looking placating smile the Heavy had ever seen, the Spy returned to buttering his biscuits. Looking from the Scout to the Heavy to the Spy, the Engineer told them that if they were gonna fight, do it in the hall because he was not fixing the durn table again. The Heavy took a deep breath, held it, and let it out in a sigh of long-suffering.

All of this would have to stop. His closest friend, the Medic, had begun to pry.

"Has the Scout discovered some sort of secret about you? Is he trying to hold it over your head? Ach, but nobody could hold anything over your head. You are much too tall! He could only hold it over your head for short periods of time, by jumping up and down.” The Medic thought he was very witty, and hooted with laughter.

The Heavy didn’t think it was very funny. 

"Tiny Scout may think he win fight. He did not."

The Medic only laughed harder. “How could he think he won a fight against you? He couldn’t hope to match you in a test of strength, obviously, and the mere fact that he thinks he could is proof enough he couldn’t best you in a trial of the wits. And you’re far too intelligent to have agreed to a race. So what, was he trying to prove which of you can carry the most embarassing weapon? Go the longest without bathing? Eat the most pancakes— no, I think you would also win that. Hm.” Leaning on his knuckles, the Medic observed the Heavy over the rims of his glasses. “You know, I think he must be terribly lonesome.”

"With eight team mates? Pfeh."

"It is just what I think. He acts out so much. This is classic attention-seeking behaviour, and, actually, I obtained a copy of the new Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, and despite his being male he seems to exhibit all of the markers of hysterical personality disorder. It’s fascinating. The volume at which he operates, the braggadocio, the womanizing— or, I should say, the attempted womanizing— it’s all there! Here, I will show you." He moved to his bookcase, and withdrew a slim volume. "Ah, here we are. Number 301.5: the Hysterical Personality. ‘These behavior patterns are characterized by excitability, emotional instability, over-reactivity, and self-dramatization. This self-dramatization is always attention-seeking and often seductive—’" The Medic attempted to continue but already the Heavy was standing. 

"No, Doktor, is okay. I will deal with this."

"With hysterical personality disorder? I don’t recommend that. I understand your PhD is in literature, not psychology."

The Heavy thought it would be rude to point out how hypocritical rather than Hippocratic it was for the Medic to chastise him for the lack of a license in the healing arts. Instead, he began making his way to the Scout’s room, to lay this whole farce to rest.

—————

The rhythmic thud of a baseball against the wall meant that the Scout was in his assigned quarters. When the Heavy knocked, the thudding stopped, and there was a brief pause before the door swung open and the Scout looked up from the tee shirt that filled his immediate line of sight, to meet the giant man’s unimpressed gaze.

"So," the Scout drawled, leaning in the doorway and crossing his arms with a lopsided grin, "You finally decided to—"

The Heavy pushed his younger team mate out of the way and stooped to step into the room. He closed the door himself. 

"I will not let you make fun," he stated, directly. "Others notice the way you act. So now, we talk."

"Aw come on," the Scout scoffed, pacing twice. "What’s left to talk about? You want me, I want you, let’s do somethin’ about it."

Looking down his nose at the Scout, the Heavy tried to discern what the Scout meant by saying that. 

"So c’mon," the Scout urged, his voice dropping by a register, "Let’s do it." He drifted closer to the Heavy, picking his way over discarded clothing and food wrappers. An arm’s reach away he stilled, then he took a breath and placed his hand on the Heavy’s front. 

"What—?" the Heavy raised his hands in alarm but didn’t move to push the Scout away. The hand, still in its dusty athletic tape from the day’s battle, moved in small circles over the Heavy’s barrel-shaped stomach. 

"I been thinkin’ ‘bout it, since that match, y’know? An’ after a while I thought, fuck yeah, bangin’ a guy that huge? Strong as you? I could get into that. ‘Specially seein’ you on yer knees. I could really get into that. Y’ever suck a dick before, big guy?”

Spluttering, the Heavy went to brush the Scout’s hand away, but the runner clung to his shirt. 

"Bet you’d be fuckin’ good at it. I’ve seen how much you can get down your throat. But, fuck, even kneeling you might be too tall. Wait, what if I got on the bed and leaned back, and you got all spread out on yer belly an’ did it? Or if you leaned back and I fucked yer face? Fuck yeah, man, shit, you feel this?” He took the Heavy’s hand and forced it to cup the front of his knickerbockers. “That’s just from talkin’ ‘bout it.” With slow, gyrating motions the Scout began to grind his cock into the Heavy’s palm. It was hot and hard, even through the fabric of his pants, and the Heavy’s glove. “Fuck, man, yer hands are so goddamn massive. An’ I think ya still got blood unner yer fingernails from when y’pretty much punched th’ BLU Spy’s head off.” 

"You saw?" The Heavy had thought it a somewhat embarassing episode, running out of every kind of ammunition and being forced to run bare-knuckled to another ammo box. The BLU Spy probably saw him as a sitting duck, but he’d missed the first attack and revealed himself, whereupon the Heavy had no other option but to beat the man to death. He didn’t mind squishing the Spy’s head like a sneering blue grape, but he didn’t like being forced into it by lack of other alternatives. He was better than that. 

"Hells yeah I did!" the Scout panted, rutting shamelessly against the Heavy’s huge fingers, "And the look on his face! HA—ohhh, yeah, right there, mother of fuck—!” The runner collapsed against the Heavy, clutching his shirt, his diatribe dissolving into a series of grunts and half-uttered groans as he practically climbed into the giant’s hand and bucked against it. The Heavy flicked his fingers, felt the Scout’s balls against his fingertips. 

"Yeah, that’s right. I’m gonna fuck yer throat raw, an’ I betcher gonna love it." The runner seemed to be leaning into the Heavy, edging them toward the bed. After a moment’s deliberation, the giant allowed himself to be led, let himself be urged to sit, then lay back, while the Scout clambered over him, beaming. 

"You got no idea what I’m gonna do to you. I’m a legend back home, you’ll see." With no hesitation, the Scout shucked his pants and athletic shorts. Despite himself, the Heavy glanced down. "You like whatchu see? I betchu do. Yeah, yours might be thick but I’m long, and I ain’t never had a dissatisfied customer."

"You have never had a man," the Heavy mumbled tersely. 

"So what? It’s basically the same, right?"

"Is not the same. You must have, eh—" he grasped for words. "Thing to make slippery."

"Like lube?" the Scout interjected. Without looking, he reached into his top drawer and pulled out a jar of Vaseline. "Gotcha covered."

The Heavy grunted in response. “And you must stretch first.” 

"Yeah that’s what my coach always said about wrestlin’—"

"No! You must stretch the, ehh. The…" he waved his hand in the air. 

"The asshole?"

"Yes. That."

"Like how?"

"With fingers! You have never stretched woman before penetrate her?!"

"Well look I’m not soda-can thick like you! Maybe I ain’t gotta!"

"Is different with man. Almost always must stretch first."

"Hhhhokay. I’ll give it a shot but uh… Hey wait! First, yer gonna suck my cock. Swear to god I’m not coming away from this without trying that out." 

"Ngh," was all the Heavy said before the Scout was straddling his chest and stroking himself back up to full attention.

"Well, g’wan!" the Scout urged, still gripping himself at the base. Sighing, the Heavy allowed his eyes to fall half-closed, and his mouth half-open. Impatiently, the Scout bumped the head of his cock against his team mate’s lips until the Heavy’s tongue swiped hot and wet over it, flickering under the flared head. "Fuck, yeah!" the Scout encouraged, pitching forward to wrap his thighs around the Heavy’s skull, humping against his face. 

He didn’t lie; he was fairly long, and the Heavy struggled to swallow around him. The Scout shivered and clawed the Heavy’s scalp, low moans rolling through him. “Aw, fuck, big guy. Yeah. Yer fuckin’ mouth, yer fuckin’ throat, goddamn!” He curled tighter around the Heavy’s head, and the Heavy snorted and coughed and found his nose smothered into the Scout’s pubic bone.

With both hands he pried the Scout away from his face, holding him up in the air and glaring. The runner twisted and turned in his grasp but the Heavy’s hands completely encircled his slim hips. He was stuck, flailing, and still painfully hard.

"Aw c’mawwn…" the Scout whined. "Fuckin’ look at this." He gestured at his lap, and the Heavy did look. The head was shiny and wet, beads of precum already welling. 

"Hmf," the Heavy scoffed. "You will not last, like this."

"Whatchu tryin’ t’say?"

"Give Vaseline."

Eyes narrowed, the Scout handed the jar to his team mate. “What’re y’gonna do, exactly?” he asked slowly. 

"Hnf. You, off." The Heavy shooed the runner off of his chest, and shifted on the thin mattress. Tense, the Scout kneeled nearby, watching as the Heavy stripped off his shirt, trousers, and boxer shorts. The giant moved slowly, mindful of the rickety bedframe, and carefully perched himself across the bed, shoulders braced against the wall and ass nearly hanging off the edge. He opened the jar and dipped his fingers into it. "You never do this, so I will do."

"An’ what am I s’posed t’do, meanwhile?"

"Watch. Learn. But do not touch yourself. You are too close already."

"Cripes, I ain’t neither!" 

The Heavy did not answer. He gripped one of his own thighs to his chest with one huge hand, and let the other slide down past his balls to tease at his entrance. He would just have to pretend the Scout wasn’t sitting there, watching him, licking his lips and leaning forward as the Heavy only continued to rub the balm over that sensitive skin, rough, callused fingertips nudging himself open by the infinitesimal fraction. The runner’s breath was loud as he stared, slack-jawed, at the Heavy’s middle finger easing centimeter by centimeter into his own ass.

"Christ, the way yer cock looks pressed against yer arm, there. Must be torture. Fuck you ain’t even really touched yer dick an’ yer all hard like that? Is it ‘cause ‘a me? Course it is, I know it is, but you could stand to say so. An’, JAY-zus, don’t that hurt? Yer fingers are goddamn huge and yer just like. Takin’ it. Goddamn. Ah Christ there goes th’ knuckle! Fuck, shit, goddamn it! How do you even do that? Yer not even flinchin’! Like, one of yer fingers is almost as big as my cock! Almost. Not quite, y’know what I’m sayin’? An’ you ain’t got the mojo like I do. You’ll see. But fuck, lookit the way yer ass stretches around that! Yeah, goddamn. I’m gonna hit you like a freight train.”

He could try to ignore the Scout’s scatological monologue, but the Heavy found himself spreading his legs a little wider, moving his wrist and arm a little more than necessary, just to highlight what he was doing. Just to give the Scout a show. The runner had scooted himself closer, and slowly, gingerly, placed a hand on the Heavy’s abdomen. He rubbed in circles as it rolled with the Heavy’s panting breaths, ran his fingers through the thick hair that ran longitudinally from the giant’s sternum to his cock. 

"You know somethin’, I think you actually look even more gigantic with yer shirt off. Like, when we’re in battle an’ all that and I see you in your shirt an’ vest, I’m like, okay, but how much of that is just his clothes, y’know? I’m gettin’ now that it’s mostly just you. Yer fuckin’ massive. I mean, I ain’t exactly a short guy, but I could lay myself out on top of you like a starfish and have room to spare. How’s that even possible? How’re you so damn big?You can just pick me up with one hand! Seriously what’s up with that? Oh, jeez, don’t get all mad, y’don’t have to make that face. Criminy. I’m just sayin’ I ain’t never met a stronger guy than you. It’s impressive, okay?"

He didn’t know what kind of face he’d been making. He was too focused on working a second finger into himself, just to feel the stretch, eagerly pushing lube into himself. 

"Fuck, that’s hot," the Scout mumbled, before leaning down to kiss the Heavy’s side, his chest, the swell of his well-developed trapezius, the firm curve of his deltoid. His tongue trailed from wrist to shoulder, then down again, sucking a mark into the inner crook of the Heavy’s elbow. His teeth worried prominent veins in the Heavy’s solid musculature. "Lemme fuck you, c’mon, ain’t you ready yet?" he pleaded, pressing himself against his team mate and grinding against the Heavy’s thigh. "I’m dyin’ over here!" 

Slowly, the Heavy withdrew his fingers. The Scout pounced as soon as he could, all gangly limbs pulling himself between the Heavy’s legs. 

"Shit, uh— Scoot back, man, I can’t get on the bed, here."

With a shrug, the Heavy told the Scout that he could stand. 

"Well I mean that’s cool an’ everything but it’s my bed and I wanna fuck you in it. So scoot back," the Scout commanded. 

Astonishingly, the Heavy obeyed. 

The Scout knelt between the Heavy’s thighs and fitted his hands into the bends in the giant’s knees. Leaning forward, he bent his largest team mate further in half, and rubbed his lower belly against the man’s cock.

"Goddamn. It’s all hot an’ everythin’ against my skin. I mean I guess that makes sense but uh…" He trailed off, losing himself in the sensation of thrusting his ready cock between the Heavy’s spread ass cheeks. "Yeah, fuck. Never had a girl who’d let me do anal. This is gonna be fuckin’ sweet.”

"Put Vaseline on you, also."

"On me? Where do ya— Oh, you mean on my dick. Okay, yeah." He scooped up a sizable dollop, rubbed his fingers to coat them, then slid a loose fist around his cock with an appreciative moan. "You know I’ve tried usin’ other stuff to jack off with but so far this is the only one that doesn’t run dry halfway through. Like, one o’ my brothers was all, ‘hand lotion, man, it’s gotta be hand lotion.’ But he’s gotta be like a minute-man because I tried it and like, two minutes later I’m having to hunt around for the damn bottle to reapply, and that like, it really took me out of it, y’know? But my hands were soft after, which my favorite girl at the time liked, so. Whateva." 

"Crisco."

"Come again?"

"Crisco works also. But do not touch yourself so much. You wish to do this thing, yes?"

"Hell yeah! I mean, just look at you, all crammed into my bed, with yer legs open like that. I always love that with a girl, y’know? When she really wants it and she opens her legs an’ you can tell just by lookin’ how wet she is. Man, I almost can’t help but eat her pussy, then, when a girl looks at me like that." He paused with his hand still encircling his cock. "But you ain’t gettin’ none o’ that from me, got it?"

Smirking, the Heavy nodded, and beckoned for the Scout to begin. 

"Okay okay. Never thought you’d be so demanding. But I like that. Alright. So do I just…?"

Again, the Heavy nodded. 

"Alright. Okay. Uh." He met the Heavy’s eyes, and for one breathless moment the Heavy’s heart seized, caught by the intensity of the Scout’s expression. He looked unsure, but hungry, and the Heavy felt his skin prickle with gooseflesh before the Scout was pressing in, then jolting forward, ramming home with three sharp thrusts that made the Heavy suck in a gasp between his teeth. 

It had been a long time, a very long time, since he’d allowed another man to penetrate him. He never thought the Scout would be next. But, with his lids fluttering and his dog tags swinging, the Scout approached this like he did everything else: with honest enthusiasm, and nothing held back. 

"Fuck, yeah. It’s… Oh fuck, big guy, it’s so goddamn… It’s like your ass is gripping me, won’t let me pull all the way out. You tryin’ to keep me inside, man? Inside your fuckin’ hot ass?Gonna keep me in you, fuckin’ you forever?”

The Heavy rolled his hips.

"C’mon, say somethin’, why dontcha?!” The Scout’s hips slapped against his ass, hard and fast, as the runner’s blunt fingernails dug into the Heavy’s thighs. 

"Ngh. Cannot feel it," the Heavy huffed, trying to hide his grin. "Will need to try harder."

"Oh you are such a lyin’ cunt," the Scout retorted. "Here, shove a pillow under yer ass and I’ll fuck that goddamn smile off yer face."

With the change in position the Heavy found it increasingly difficult to maintain the upper hand. The Scout was quick, and agile, and his hands gripped the Heavy’s hips as he hauled himself forward, licking and biting his own lips, staring up the line of the Heavy’s body as he pulled nearly all the way out before driving home. He canted his hips to screw inwards, gyrating, and finally, the Heavy groaned. 

"Aw, HELL yeah, y’like that?" And the Scout bent closer, and licked the Heavy’s belly, and the giant shook with the effort to stay quiet, to refrain from giving the Scout the satisfaction of knowing how far he’d gotten under the Heavy’s skin. 

Because yes, he liked it, and yes, he wanted it, and yes, he was letting the Scout fuck him into the wall, and yes, it was good, so good, better than he’d allowed himself to think it would be. And, in the hot, visceral space between the Scout’s hips meeting his, the long, slow pull as he shifted out again, and each sudden, searing push back in, the Heavy could admit that he’d wanted it for quite some time, and he hated himself for it, hated that he could be laid low by this swaggering, uncultured brat, and thought maybe this sweet torture of being stretched, pummeled on the inside, maybe this was retribution, or a form of poetic justice. He could admit that there was just something about the quirk of the Scout’s lips, something in the flicker of his hands, that was too enigmatic to be simply written off. And, when low moans rose unbidden from the pit of his gut, he could admit that it was not the Scout that was in danger in this situation. 

His body rolled as he met the Scout’s next thrust, and he was undone. 

"That’s right, Big Red, move with me. See how much deeper I get when y’help out? Y’know for such a big guy you sure got yerself one tight little ass, goddamn." He tipped his head back, for a moment, fell quiet and seemed to go into a daze. "I’m really diggin’ the way yer moanin’," he whispered. "It really turns me on. Sounds like yer really into it. You love the way I’m givin’ it to ya, huh?"

And the Heavy could only nod, and rumble louder, huge fingers gripping the bedclothes, making the fabric creak. 

"You really like takin’ it in the ass, huh? You’d never expect a behemoth like you t’be into this kinda thing. But man, you are just lovin’ it. Almost makes me curious."

Forcing his eyes open, the Heavy stared quizzically at the Scout. He could feel the colour in his cheeks, knew how he must look. The Scout only shrugged. 

"Y’know. Makes me wonder what I’m missin’. I mean, I ain’t about to take your monster cock, but maybe one’a yer fingers.”

The Heavy nearly choked.

"What?!" he wheezed, trying to regain his wits even as the Scout coninued to plow into him. 

"Naw, you know," the Scout replied, sounding breathless, and far-away. "Yer tall enough to reach from there. Betcha you could do it just like this." He pawed at the Heavy’s hand. "Come on, you look like YOU’RE havin’ fun. Why you gonna hold out on me, huh?" 

The Heavy attempted to look incredulous, he really did, but with the Scout’s hands rubbing up and down his stomach, ribs to hips and back again, he couldn’t muster anything stronger than vague confusion. 

"Yeah. I think you should do it. I think you should try. Just dip yer fingers in that Vaseline right there and give me a shot. I wanna know what all this fuss is about— you moanin’ and thrashin’ an’ all that. C’mon."

And, light-headed, the Heavy reached for the jar. His hands trembled as he unscrewed it, and he couldn’t believe it, couldn’t sit with the idea that it was the Scout who caused this shaking of limbs, this witlessness. He hated that he liked the loudmouthed little twerp. With slick Vaseline on his fingers he vowed to submit the Scout to this same ruination, to make him pant and writhe with want. 

Reaching down, he was indeed tall enough; his arms were long enough to slide his fingers into the cleft of the Scout’s ass, to rub his fingertips against the muscle. Even as the Scout continued to fuck him, even as the runner started to groan through his teeth, the Heavy only brushed the pad of his finger in circles, slow, uneven circles, around the Scout’s entrance. With two fingers, he could push the Scout’s ass cheeks wider, force his hole to stretch, without penetrating him. 

"That… actually feels pretty good. I think I can handle if you put one in, now."

But the Heavy did not. He gathered more Vaseline onto his fingers and went back to just teasing, only barely touching, feeling the way the Scout’s pace inside him stuttered. 

"I mean it," the Scout insisted, breath heaving, "You can go ahead an’ do it. I’m pretty sure I’m ready for it."

The Heavy drew his fingers up, and skirted just the edge of that sensitive skin, touched harder, but farther away. 

"NNNngk! No, not there, fuck, you ain’t, that’s, goddamn it!" 

And the Scout began writhing between the Heavy’s hand behind him and his body before him, and his grunts became whines, until he collapsed forward, clawing the Heavy’s gut and arching back, trying to force the Heavy’s fingers into him, aching to feel his sensitive flesh stroked and stretched.

"Goddamn, man, please, just fuckin’— this ain’t fair!" He smacked the Heavy’s thigh, and drank in the grunt of pain. "Fuckin’ do it or else I can’t concentrate on fuckin’ you!"

And the Heavy’s fingertip pressed in and the Scout’s mouth stretched wide as he felt that huge digit breaching him. 

"Ohh, FUCK!" the Scout shouted. "Yeah, goddamn, you’re right. This is pretty good, it’s— JAY-zus H. motherlickin’ TAP DANCIN’ CHRIST! You— you, you. You just shoved it all in! Just like that! Mother of fuck!"

"Not all," the Heavy corrected quietly, pulling his finger most of the way out before pushing back in again, this time as deep as he could. The Scout let out a deep, shuddering breath.

"Okay. Okay yeah, that’s… I think that’s good too just. Just gimme a minute so I can fuck you again. I can’t do both. FUCK yer hands are so. Yer fingers are so fuckin’ thick. An’ I mean I knew that but it’s different when they’re inside you and yer… Aw, hell!”

He wrapped his arms around the Heavy’s middle, closed his eyes, bit his lips, and snapped his hips, clenching around the Heavy’s finger and moaning desperately into the Heavy’s skin. 

"Fuckin’, every goddamn time y’move yer fuckin’ finger I’m like, fuckin’, shit, so close!"

'Thank God,' the Heavy thought. He didn't think he'd ever live it down if he came long before the Scout did. And the way the Scout leaned over him pressed his cock between his own belly and the Scout's, sweat-slick, the friction maddening, almost sharp in contrast to the runner's staccato thrusts. The Scout clawed the Heavy's flanks and dug his knees and feet into the mattress and bore down, then back to fuck himself on the Heavy's thick digits. 

"Dunno if I’m gonna last," he whimpered. "C’mon, you should come, too. I don’t wanna if you ain’t, fuck!" He leaned back, and seized the Heavy’s cock in a tight grip. "How ‘bout this, huh?" His hand flew up and down, too far-gone for finesse, tugging the Heavy’s cock as fiercely as he fucked him. The other hand anchored him against the Heavy’s pelvis, baseball-stregthened fingers holding fast. "C’mon,” he encouraged. “For me?” And he grinned weakly, and that dimple was there, on his flushed face with sweat gathering at his hairline, and he bucked even harder ad the Heavy bit into his own wrist to muffle the roar as he came, shaking and rattling the bed and splattering his belly, his chest, and the Scout’s hand. 

"Fuck, you almost screamed there, goddamn," the Scout commented, almost reverently, while the Heavy still shook and arched. "Yeah, just like that, just like that, yeah, fuck!" 

The Scout buried himself deep, shoulders hunched as the orgasm tore through him, and each short, hungry thrust brought another rush out of him. 

"Oh God, oh fuck, oh yeah!" he chanted, and the Heavy twitched his finger inwards to draw it out and the Scout moaned and nearly trembled, nails scoring vivid red lines down the slope of the Heavy’s stomach.

When the Scout finished, he was boneless, and nearly fell off the bed, but the Heavy caught him with one hand, and hauled him up to lie beside him. The Scout crawled over him to grab a wad of tissues, and he half-heartedly wiped them both down, but the Heavy would want a shower. He’d really want a bath, but he would take what he could get. He cleaned his hands as best he could, sat up, and stretched, before reaching for his shorts and trousers.

"Whatchu gettin’ dressed for?" the Scout asked, pressing his back against the wall, seeking cold spots to cool his sweat. "You got somewhere to be?"

The Heavy looked over his shoulder at the Scout. The runner didn’t look pleading, or teasing, or hopeful, or cruel. His face, actually, was arranged in that strange James Dean expression, again. It was difficult to read. 

"Well. I’m beat either way," he said after a long moment, flopping down against the sheets. "An’ my pillow’s all sweaty," he added, shoving it off of the bed. "Stay if you want," he told the ceiling.

Slowly, the Heavy sat back down. 

"Good," the Scout said.

"Good," the Heavy agreed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Find me on tumblr under the same username if you ever want to send me a prompt~!


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